Ja'far's Golden Rule
by kheelwithit
Summary: Jafar really needs to think about how he words things. Or he really needs to expect less from his king. A lot less, because that would be the only way to cope with Sinbad's naked form on his bed after work hours.


Jafar's Golden Rule

Or

Sinbad's Interpretation

Or maybe

Sinfully Delicious

"You really are irresponsible, Sin. What if I left _you_ at political delegations? Where would you be? Drunk and beat up in a ditch. Honestly, you aught to treat others the way you want to be treated!... Are you even _listening_?"

Jafar really needs to think about how he words things.

Or he really needs to expect less from his king.

A lot less, because that would be the only way to cope with Sinbad's naked form on his bed after work hours.

"What... is this?"

He vaguely gestures to Sinbad's nakedness, rubbing his temple with his eyes very pointedly looking at his king's undies on the floor. The gods have granted him patience of several better beings, because Sinbad hasn't flown out the window yet.

"Taking your advice,"

The duh he left out still managed to make itself known in the now tense silence and the patience of those several better beings has swiftly departed back to the original owner.

"_When_ did I _ever_ say it was okay to do... _any of this!"_

Jafar is only just strong enough to refrain from punching his king's face in.

"_You_ said I should start treating others the way _I_ want to be treated,"

Sinbad sounds very much like a smart mouthed child right now, and Jafar is itching to spank him like one... after he gets dressed.

Jafar stares his king in the eye (and only the eye) with disbelief and frustration.

The moment passes.

"Get out."

"No"

Jafar begins to throw Sin's previously discarded garb in his face.

"Leave, Sin,"

"Hey~ Jafar! You should really take your own advice! What if _you_ walked into my room in the buff and _I_ yelled at _you_ and told you to l-"

Smack. A kingly pair of underwear stops Sinbad's mouth from doing any more damage

"I wouldn't be in this situa-!"

Jafar's voice is stopped when a pair of his own shoes bonks him on the forehead.

He hopes Sinbad realizes that this means war.

And the clothes begin to fly.

And fly they do, until Jafar realises that Sinbad is grabbing clothing from his dresser, and by battling Sinbad, he is only ruining his room.

Needless to say, ceasefire is reached.

Jafar instead turns right around, pulls his armchair to face his window, and sits.

He'll wait, his king will understand that Jafar wants none of his tomfoolery, and Sinbad will leave.

He studies the Sindrian nightlife below, and waits.

A sigh is exhaled from the bed's direction five minutes in,

Jafar counts it as a leap towards his victory.

Ten minutes later Sinbad spits. Spits! And while Jafar is disturbed to think that somewhere in his room is his king's saliva, he refuses to allow himself to move. That would be letting Sinbad win.

Jafar steels himself against any other disturbing noises, but what comes to his ears is a Sound of an unexpected and not so disgusting variety.

The sound of Sin... touching himself...

An unexpected turn of events.

And because Jafar has no expertise in what one is supposed to do in this situation, he remains as he is.

Which proves to be hard when his attention begins to slip to what his king must look like.

He can hear Sinbad breathing only so slightly heavier and worries his lip as he unwillingly thinks of how his king must look with his legs spread wide and shameless, pleasing himself with his head tilted to the side. That troublesome royal purple hair slipping downwards to such a broa-

Jafar's trousers are getting a bit too tight.

He reigns in his thoughts.

The object of fantasy shifts on the bed

"Nnmph"

and Jafar's daydreams are off to the races.

"Hnn"

Jafar's hand sneaks unbidden to palm himself in an attempt to relieve the painful constriction of his pants. He snatches his hand away like its burnt after he feels his hips slowly rolling into the cupped hand.

"Ready to give, Jafar?"

_Yes, a thousand times yes._ Says his cock.

"No. Go away. "

"C'mon Jafar, you wanna leave me here? Hangin'? Only my hand for company? I would never do that to you~"

_No, he wouldn't, would he? No, he'd touch Jafar, stroke him off with that damnable smirk _-

**No. Stop that this instant.**

His eyes focus on the golden glow of the city.

And then the sheets rustle again, foosteps, deceptively light for someone so large, creep up behind him.

Brass hoops brush his cheek, light and cool in comparison to the heated heavy breath that fans over the right side of his face.

"You're my advisor. And that means that your job is to do what I ask"

Large hands move around the chair and yank at Jafar's keffiyeh till it slides off and onto the floor with the rest of the clothes war destruction.

"And I want you to enjoy yourself, Jafar."

And then those hands _move_.

Down his collarbone and tugging at his hair

Slipping in his robes and undoing the sash to undo the crisp shirt underneath.

Then to his bare chest and _oh god._

Jafar's vision is blurring, the world narrowing down to colorful blurbs as his chest heaves and his fingernails leave marks in the leather armrests because

Sinbad's fingers are doing the most sinfully delicious things.

Feathering his fingers just right over Jafar's ribcage making his breath stop and body stutter closer, closer and jerk back erratically; completely lost between too little touch and too much sensation.

His ears pick up his king's baritone snickers even though he's too absorbed in the barely there slide of fingers to his belly to process it.

And those glorious fingers stay there for some of the best moments of Jafar's life, ghosting in ways that make his hips jerk and hiss his pleasure from bared, clenched teeth.

"BUT! I suppose I wouldn't want someone bothering _me_, so I guess if you really don't want me here..."

And then they move away. Off of his body.

Jafar's body sorely misses them as he tries his best to calm his raging boner and relax his hands because he _knows_ what his king is trying to do. Knows it like he knows that he won't fall for it.

The sound of his King slipping on clothing tells Jafar that he has his victory.

Sinad understands that Jafar will have none of his tomfoolery.

Sinbad is leaving.

In the mostly dark of his trashed room, Jafar's eyes narrow at he twinkling lights of Sindria that lay outside his window.

Jafar absolutely, positively will NOT fall for this.

That night, after cleaning up the post clothes war destruction, Jafar can't sleep. The comforter is too stuffy and insulated for his body, but taking it off leaves him at the mercy of cold island nights.

Either way around, he ends up thinking about Sin's sublime hands.

He's disgusted that a fleeting touch is all his body needs to squirm. Really, he should be better than that.

He stays up most of the night trying in vain to mimic and desensitize himself from that.

And if he's only gotten fifteen minutes of sleep, well, he's had far worse for far longer.

He will be fine.

He isn't fine.

The sensation that evaded him so well just last night is now harassing him with every move he -and sometimes others- makes. It happens at the most usual things.

The silk of his robes rubs against the inside of his wrists _just so _while he reaches for another scroll.

The way his keffiyeh constantly slides against his neck, his earlobes and just beneath them.

It really is enough to have him walking around without both articles of clothing.

People have been looking at him oddly all day.

Some of them had the nerve to believe he didn't wear _trousers_. Absurd.

But its bearable. He can still function, and nobody knows, so he continues.

At least, until Yamuraiha stops it.

"Jafar, are you okay? You've been acting out of sorts... we're starting to worry,"

She poked her head into his office to find him hunched and scribbling finances with a untouched plate of now cold food resting at the corner of the desk.

"Hmm"

The general slipped herself inside and behind Jafar, peered at his effortlessly perfect script.

And THAT was the catalyst to the cataclysmic armageddon of Jafar loosing his self control.

Its just grazed him. Fucking feathery littke blue hairs just _skimmed_ the back of his neck and he, _Jafar_! Lost it. He couldn't keep his hand from dropping the quill, completely (disgustingly) lax, nor could he stop the far too innocent and _unlike_ _himself_ 'oh' that slips past his (traitorous) lips.

And in the split second that Yamu's eyebrows rose in what Sharrkan would have called the most hilarious expression ever, Jafar had scrambled over the desk and out into the hallway.

In an unrelated note, Yamu would move on to tell Sinbad of her most perplexing visit into the advisors catacomb of an office and the king would give a very disquieting grinch grin to alarm all parties within visual range.

_Jafar was totally, insurmountably, undeniably, going to fall for it._

_Fuck yeah, Sinbad._

There was a reason he had 7 djinn. And more buxom ladies than the Kou empire. And A kingdom.


End file.
